


(cracked this morning) worse than weak

by Idlewild



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 2015 Daredevil Secret Santa Gift Exchange, Angst, Daredevil Secret Santa, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 01, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, or getting there at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:24:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idlewild/pseuds/Idlewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He wanted to hide. Foggy couldn’t see him now, Foggy would know, Foggy would </i>care<i> and that would make it real. As long as he could keep going, not let anyone see, he could tell himself that this wasn’t so bad. That this wasn’t </i>that<i>. But there was no point. Foggy would know.</i></p><p>After Fisk is out of the way, Matt falls hard into a depressive spell. Thankfully Foggy is there with his constant support to help him get back up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(cracked this morning) worse than weak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tj_teejay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tj_teejay/gifts).



> The prompt was  
>  _Cracked this morning, worse than weak: I'd love to read something that goes with the K's Choice song Until I'm Fine. Ideally something where Foggy tries to help Matt through a depressive episode._
> 
> Song can be heard on [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RUUUqWGKNZQ) or, if that goes all copyrighty on you, [Dailymotion](http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2qwn3k). I recommend it; so beautiful.

Everything was great these days. Clients were steadily trickling in thanks to Nelson and Murdock’s involvement in Fisk’s trial. Wronged tenants like Elena, unfairly accused youth like Karen, workers laid off on false grounds – all knocking at their door to such an extent that they had been forced to turn several away from a lack of time. They tried to refer them to good alternatives, but Matt knew that both Foggy and Karen felt as bad as he did that they couldn’t help everyone.

Everything was great these days. The new suit was a huge help in more ways than one. Firstly, it worked well as a scare tactic – petty criminals capitulated at the sight rather than tangle with a guy looking like a superhero and renowned for bringing down the Kingpin – and secondly, those of a more resilient and violent disposition didn’t do him as much harm as when all Matt had had for protection was hyper-breathable polyester and his ducking skills. As a result, he didn’t need much recuperation time, and he was out almost every night.

Everything was great these days. Karen had finally opened up about her… capital offence, and Matt had decided he could be as open in return, so now she was well aware of his vigilantism. She had taken it remarkably well. Foggy was growing used to it too, it seemed, more relaxed and less chastising as time went on.

So if everything was great these days, why, then, didn’t he feel like it? The fighting that used to invigorate him, the law that used to thrill him when he held its complexity at his fingertips, his friends and their unwavering caring… all of it was doing less and less to lift his spirits. As winter dragged on, interminably, it was all mostly lowering them instead, and nothing was ever enough.

Nothing was enough, but it had to be. It _had to_ , because he was giving it his all. Out half the night helping, up all day helping, hanging out with Foggy and Karen in the evenings – none of it was enough, and all of it made him feel lost somehow. Wherever he was and whatever he was doing, he began to feel more and more like getting out of there, being anywhere doing anything but here and this.

These were the things he lived for. Work and work and Foggy (and Karen too, now), they were what made him him, what made him get up and go on, so why then didn’t they feel like it?

~~~~~*~~~~~

Early February brought snow, and with it a steep drop in outdoor crime – which was lucky since the copious snow made running across rooftops, hearing punches and sensing people’s presence that much harder. There came a time when Matt had to admit defeat, even though he hated himself for it, because he couldn’t help in this weather anyway. Besides, he had promised Foggy not to go out tonight, to chill on the daredevilry until the snow cleared, and he couldn’t break Foggy’s trust. Not again.

His arms were itching with the urge to throw punches, though. There was something inside him constantly riling him up, telling him to run until he couldn’t or pummel everything into dust, a force stronger even than his growing desire to not do anything at all. He went to Fogwell’s.

It was closed for the night, so he could do as he pleased. He wrapped his hands on autopilot and set up a steady rhythm on the bags. (Warm up first – why bother?) He lost himself in the monotony and the adrenaline and his thoughts began to whir.

They couldn’t find a key witness in their latest case; the girl seemed to have gone underground. Without her the case might not stand. This was pointless, this punching, he wasn’t even trying. Stick would laugh at him. He should be out there instead. Foggy said he shouldn’t. Foggy had been in here – find a way to move forward – posters whispering on the walls, his dad’s among them – snow swirling off the roof outside, deafening in its mockery – sirens he could do nothing about –

He missed. The bag swung wide and thwacked him on the shoulder, and he dropped his hands. Dropped his guard. Dropped everything. The bag swayed lazily on its chains in front of him as he stood there, stock still, hands dangling uselessly, panting hard.

He had to keep going, he wasn’t done, he mustn’t stop now or his muscles would go cold. _Guard up, Matt!_ he tried to tell himself, but he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t lift his arms, what kind of fighter was he? Rooted to the spot, his thoughts a black swirl. They should be bright red and orange, fire, not smoke. The fire had gone out in his mind and the fight had gone out of his body and he just stood. He felt like sinking to the floor, curl up into the smallest ball possible, become one with the concrete and _sleep_. Sleep was nothing, and he wanted nothing. But some modicum of self-respect remained, and he refused to let himself do something so piteous.

The sweat had cooled and dried on his skin, and if there were tears intermixed with it he didn’t care. How long had he been standing there, not even thinking? Slowly, agonisingly, he walked back to his bag, unwrapped his hands, put his jacket on. Get home, then sleep.

~~~~~*~~~~~

The world woke him the next day with its maelstrom of garbage trucks and waffles and running showers. They all coalesced in his brain, thickening the swirling fog. The smoky perception made no sense; directions and distances all jumbled. Still, he had to get up, get to work, be productive. If he was worthless at night, at least he could still do his day job.

Minutes passed in a daze as he tried to persuade himself to move. Getting out of bed shouldn’t be this hard. He had done fine yesterday, and all the days before that. He could do fine today as well, and all the days after. He rolled onto his back, flung the covers off with monumental effort. _Good work, step one complete_ , a sarcastic voice in his mind chided him. It sounded a bit like Stick. It made him want to scream, but the energy just wasn’t there. He scraped together what willpower he could find and got up before the voice could come up with anything worse. Bathroom, kitchen, fridge. Breakfast.

There was nothing. Eggs, juice, tomatoes; bread, oats, bananas. And yet, nothing. He got stuck there, cool air pouring out over his bare feet. _Just pick something_ , he told himself, _cook something, eat something, go to work. It’s not hard._ But the smog in his mind made it impossible.

The air rolling out of the fridge was warmer now. He slowly realised that there was beeping, that the beeping was the fridge telling him to close it already. He did. He went back to bed.

When he slapped his alarm clock, it told him ‘nine twenty-nine AM’ and he wondered if it had rung already. Did he switch it off and forget? Then he checked his phone and found it to be Saturday. He supposed he should be relieved that he didn’t have to go to work, but he just felt numb. There was nothing. Smoke and nothing.

Time passed in fits and starts and then – ‘Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.’ He let the phone repeat the name until it stopped. ‘Voicemail.’ What did Foggy want with him that was so important, anyway?

He should have picked up. He should listen to the voicemail, at least. It might be important. He had to. He couldn’t.

‘Foggy. Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.’ He backhanded the phone to the floor but it kept ringing. No voicemail this time.

The smoke in his mind made it hard to think. It had seeped into his chest too now. He knew this feeling and he hated it and he couldn’t believe he had gone so long without it this time. He also couldn’t believe that it hadn’t always been there, that it wouldn’t always be there. The phone stayed quiet and Matt drifted, curled on his side with his back to the door.

Foggy knocked. He knew it was him before he even spoke, but he hadn’t heard him coming over. How had he not heard that? ‘Matt? Matty, you in there?’ Foggy’s head landed against the door with a soft thump. ‘Matt, come on. We’re meeting Karen in less than an hour, did you forget?’

Karen. Oh no. He was meant to meet Foggy at the office today, then go… somewhere? With Karen? Fuck, he had totally forgotten, and why couldn’t he remember?

‘Matt, I’m coming in now,’ Foggy told him. Matt listened through the smoggy nothingness to him walking up stairs, unlocking the roof door, walking down stairs.

He wanted to hide. Foggy couldn’t see him now, Foggy would know, Foggy would _care_ and that would make it real. As long as he could keep going, not let anyone see, he could tell himself that this wasn’t so bad. That this wasn’t _that_. But there was nothing, no point, and Foggy would know.

The steps stopped in the bedroom doorway. ‘Hey, Matt, you awake? Up and at ‘em, buddy!’ He tried to sound cheery, but Matt could hear his worry. He needed to turn around, show Foggy that he was alive and well, but the smog in his chest had spread into his limbs and was dragging him inexorably into the mattress.

‘Matty, come on,’ Foggy insisted, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed, gripping Matt’s shoulder. He rolled him over, and Matt let him. ‘Hey, what’s up? Are you hurt? _Please_ tell me you didn’t go out last night.’

Matt shook his head, hoping Foggy would interpret it as “no, I’m not hurt”. That didn’t turn out too well, though, if Foggy’s heart rate was anything to go by.

‘Okay, well, I’m sorry for waking you, but you kinda overslept there, buddy. Didn’t you hear my calls?’

Matt shrugged vaguely; the smoke had eaten all his words. Foggy deflated beside him, sighing, dropping his head. His hand stayed on Matt’s shoulder, soft and warm.

‘Matt, would you talk to me? Just… just tell me one thing…’ but whatever he was meant to tell got lost in déjà-vu of months ago, sofa, _pain_ , fear, _betrayal_. The hand on his shoulder squeezed and shook him gently and Matt realised he probably had to answer something. Or at least breathe. He did. The smoke cracked and crackled around the breath.

‘What?’ he said, the word coming out a whisper.

‘I said, please just tell me: is this one of your… episodes?’

Matt wanted so badly to be able to say no, but he had promised no more lies. Then again, he couldn’t very well say yes. Admitting it would be admitting defeat, and Murdocks didn’t do that. They always got back up. He just had to get back up. And he couldn’t.

Foggy sighed again and Matt thought maybe he had taken a little too long in responding. What was he meant to respond to again?

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Foggy said and oh. Right. That. ‘Not gonna lie, it’s not like I haven’t had my suspicions for a while. Didn’t wanna say anything, thought I’d let you go your own pace. But Matt, I… I wish you’d tell me these things. You know I care. You _do_ know that, right?’

Matt did. At least he thought he did. He was pretty sure, so he nodded. Foggy cared, Foggy was such a good friend, and Matt should be a better friend to him back. He should tell him things. He should have told him this, but what would he have said? In trying so hard to keep it away, he wasn’t even sure he’d known until now.

‘Sorry,’ he said, still in a whisper.

Foggy squeezed his shoulder again. ‘Don’t worry about it. I know these things are hard to talk about.’

Matt closed his eyes that he hadn’t even known were open. He tried to use the warmth of Foggy’s hand to drive back the dense smog inside, focusing so hard on that one point of contact that the rest of the world fell away.

‘So… do you want to cancel today?’ Foggy asked carefully.

Matt shrugged because he had no idea. He still didn’t remember what today was even about, and he didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t know that he much wanted anything at all.

‘Shall I call Karen for a rain-check?’

‘I don’t know,’ Matt whispered – he had given up trying to use his vocal cords since they were clearly not in on the game today.

‘All right. You don’t know, it’s okay. I’ll decide, and I decide rain-check. Okay?’ Matt shrugged again. ‘Okay,’ Foggy repeated, taking out his phone.

Foggy’s hand suddenly felt wrong on Matt’s shoulder. He couldn’t let him deal with this crap again, he deserved better. And as for Matt, he certainly didn’t deserve this kindness. He rolled out from under the hand and turned back away, wrapping his arms around himself. ‘You go,’ he said.

‘What?’ Foggy’s phone was already ringing; Karen might pick up at any second. They should have decided on an excuse – what if Foggy told her?

‘You go. Please, don’t…’ but that was all the words he had left. There was nothing. Smoke and nothing and his shoulder felt cold.

Foggy hung up. ‘Matty, hey, I’m not going without you. And “please don’t” what?’

Matt opened his mouth, willing words to form, but they just wouldn’t. He pulled his knees up towards his chest, dug his nails into the backs of his arms. His chest hurt. His throat hurt. He wished he could cry, but he also kind of wished Foggy wouldn’t be there for it.

‘Oh Matt, I’m sorry.’ Foggy shifted on the bed, sitting with his back to the wall.

 _What are_ you _sorry for?_ Matt couldn’t say.

‘Is it okay if I touch you?’ Foggy asked.

Yes, so much yes, but also no, because he shouldn’t need that. He should get up, stop being so annoying, such a burden. He shrugged, dry eyes open to the empty space of the world. He tried to be irritated at Foggy for asking all these questions, because he should know the score by now. _I don’t know what I want, I don’t know, so what’s the point of asking?_ But all he felt was void, pathetic, and worse than weak.

‘Okay, well, I would like to, anyway. I think it might help, so I’m gonna. Stroke your hair. Shake your head if you want me to stop.’

Foggy laid his hand gently above Matt’s temple, moving his fingers through his hair. Matt’s eyes fell closed again and the tension in his neck and hands eased a fraction.

‘It’ll be okay, buddy,’ Foggy said, and his heartbeat told Matt he believed it.

 _How can it?_ Matt’s mind countered. _Everything is great and yet everything is shit, so how could it ever get any better?_ He was relieved that his mind-to-speech barrier was a solid brick wall at the moment, because saying those things aloud would be terribly whiny. Matt didn’t whine. That was beaten out of him a long time ago.

‘You can get through this,’ Foggy went on. ‘You always do, right? And I’ll be here, whenever you need me. It’ll be okay.’

Matt shook his head minutely, the only outward sign of his disbelief – but he had forgotten Foggy’s earlier instruction and now the hand twitched and alighted from his head like a startled bird.

‘Sorry,’ Foggy said.

Matt wanted his hand back, but he couldn’t ask for it. Even if he had the words, that would be begging and begging was right up there with whining on the list of Things Matt Murdock Didn’t Do. His own hands tensed again, resuming their death-grip on his arms. It hurt in a distant sort of way, so far below the ache in his chest that it didn’t even count. The part of his mind that still functioned beyond smog and crumbling brick was pleased that Foggy couldn’t see through his sheets, because self-harm, no matter how measly and involuntary, had always been a sore point with Foggy.

He shouldn’t do it. He should stop. It would be so easy to simply _stop_ , but those ten pricks of pain were the only things that held him together right now. And somehow, ashamed though he was to realise it, some small part of him wanted Foggy to notice, to stop him, to do something, _anything_ , that was an alternative to this.

Foggy’s phone rang on Matt’s nightstand.

‘It’s Karen,’ and oh. Matt had forgotten about her. Again. He stiffened even more, impossibly. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell her anything.’ Foggy picked up. ‘Hey, Karen.’

‘Hi, Foggy. You called?’

‘Yeah, sorry, I was gonna… look, can we do this some other time? Matt’s not well, and, well, he told me to go without him but I kind of – this should be a group activity, you know?’

‘Oh, yeah, yeah, sure. Tell him I said to feel better, okay?’

‘Will do. Thanks, Karen.’

They hung up and Matt relaxed his arm-mauling, smelling blood. He was reasonably sure that Foggy and his normal olfactory perception wouldn’t, though.

‘Thanks,’ he murmured.

‘Of course, buddy. It’s fine. Hey, you hungry?’ Foggy could always be counted upon to try every available solution and this was the one that Matt tended to like the least. ‘Did you have any breakfast?’

Matt recalled trying. He didn’t think he’d made it, so he shook his head.

‘Want me to get you anything?’

He shook his head again. _I’m not sick_ , he wanted to say, _don’t try to feed me_.

‘Okay,’ Foggy said, sounding defeated. At a loss. Matt hated himself for putting that tone in Foggy’s voice. He wished he could be more cooperative, stronger, easier. He wished he didn’t need this, whatever “this” was, that he could cope on his own.

And Foggy just wouldn’t give up. ‘Want some juice at least? Do you have juice?’

Matt nodded, then shook his head vehemently, because yes, there was juice, but no, he most certainly did not want any.

Foggy was about to say something, but then he got up and left for the kitchen instead. He was back in short order, placing two glasses of apple juice on the nightstand and resuming his place in bed. Matt’s stomach rumbled so loudly that even Foggy heard it.

‘You _are_ hungry,’ he stated.

Matt cursed his body for betraying him this way because yes, of course he was, he hadn’t eaten in… what time was it? He tried to gauge it by the street sounds but gave up right away as the smoke swirled to life in his mind again. He sighed.

‘Okay, here’s an idea, and you’re not gonna like it but hear me out: how about you sit up and take one gulp? You’ll be handsomely rewarded with decreased hypoglycaemia!’

Matt would have snorted at the preposterousness of that, but the brick wall in his throat was firmly against any and all noise.

‘So what do you say?’ Foggy sounded so hopeful that Matt had to at least try. He struggled out from under his duvet, Foggy placed his pillow against the headboard, and Matt dumped himself against it. Foggy’s breathing sounded triumphant, and Matt felt immensely pathetic that his sitting up would warrant actual triumph. Still, he accepted the glass Foggy handed him.

Foggy polished off his own juice in record time as Matt managed two sips. Then he felt queasy and gave up.

‘Excellent juice, dude,’ Foggy said. ‘How do you feel?’

Empty. Sick. Breaking. Exhausted. Yeah, mostly that. He shrugged again and felt like crying because shrugging was apparently the only form of communication he was capable of right now.

‘Yeah…’ Foggy said. There was that tone of voice again, so despondent, so powerless. Foggy was upset that he couldn’t do anything, and Matt felt guilty for dragging him down with him. The black smog in his chest was smothering him and he sighed heavily; sighing provided some relief, short-lived though it was. If he could just keep sighing, maybe he could evacuate the smoke so he could function again – but then again, probably not.

He handed Foggy back his glass, still mostly full, and Foggy took it – then tensed, his heart speeding up.

‘Matt? What’s with the blood?’

 _What blood?_ Foggy put the glass away hurriedly and took Matt’s hand, and oh, that blood. He should have wiped his nails on the sheet, he supposed, but at times like these he tended to forget that other people could see.

 _It’s nothing, nothing, nothing, don’t_ – Foggy touched one fingertip to the back of Matt’s arm. Soft salt invaded the air between them as Foggy’s breathing stalled. Matt could tell Foggy was trying his damnedest not to cry, and somehow that gave him the strength to produce a full sentence.

‘It’s nothing, Fog, don’t worry about it, it’s nothing, I didn’t, I didn’t do it on purpose.’ Right now he felt unusually separate from his body, so he thought he’d let it take the blame.

Foggy’s voice trembled. ‘Matty, I just… I wish I could help you.’ _You are helping_ , Matt thought, _just by wanting to_. ‘Please, if there’s anything you need, or want, or _don’t_ want, even… would you tell me?’

Matt sort of nodded even though he doubted it. How could he tell Foggy what he wanted when he didn’t even know himself? ‘Nothing…’ he mumbled.

‘What was that?’

He turned away, shook his head, slid back under the covers. ‘I just wanna sleep,’ he said. He was _so tired_ , hollowed out with it. He wanted to sleep forever, sleep dreamlessly, sleep so no one could demand things from him. So he couldn’t demand things from himself.

‘Yeah, okay,’ Foggy said. ‘Do you want me to stay?’

 _Stop asking questions_ , Matt didn’t say. He tried harder than he’d tried anything today to come up with a response, because Foggy deserved that much, but there was nothing. He shrugged, helplessly.

‘All right. How about I go sit on your couch and play games on my phone and I’ll be here if you need me?’

Matt nodded. He might just cry at how understanding Foggy was. He wanted to deserve this care, so badly, wanted to believe Foggy when he said things would be okay, but he couldn’t because there was nothing ahead but impenetrable smoke. He squeezed his eyes shut around unshed tears so Foggy might not see them. The pain in his chest was crawling up his throat again as his eyes burned, the wall inside him crumbling brick by brick. In its place stood a gaping chasm and he was teetering on the edge.

Foggy shifted beside him with a mumbled ‘okay’ and started getting up. Suddenly Matt desperately wanted him to stay, just stay right there where he could feel him, so he could feel safe – but he had no way of letting him know. Trying to would push him into free-fall.

Somehow his silence must have told Foggy something, because he stilled and lingered, then rested a hand at the nape of Matt’s neck, light but protective.

It was his undoing.

Tears came flowing all at once, gliding past closed lids and dampening the pillow, and he tried to breathe around the lump in his throat as the abyss claimed him. Foggy’s hand was still there, the only thing grounding him even as it ripped away his last defences.

‘Hey, Matty…’ Foggy’s voice was soft and sad, ‘hey, it’s okay…’

The unyielding inertia that had held him all morning suddenly released him as a sob tore its way up his throat, and he found himself twisting on the bed and nearly throwing himself into Foggy. Foggy’s heart jumped with surprise, but he caught Matt effortlessly and held him close against his chest.

All the thoughts of must, can’t, should, can’t, guilt and fear poured out of him in a wordless stream of anguish, and maybe, just maybe, they’d take the smoke with them. Maybe Foggy would tie them all down so they couldn’t find their way back in.

With Foggy’s arms around him so tightly and his heart singing right into his ear as he rocked them silently side to side, Matt could almost believe he deserved this. Or at least that Foggy thought he did – and that might be enough.

He lost track of how long they stayed like that. When at last his breathing calmed down and his tears ran dry, there was a puddle on Foggy’s shirt and Matt’s throat was raw. Every inch of his sinuses was clogged up, but his chest felt lighter, less smoky. Tiny tendrils of fire were making their way into his burned-down mind: birds on the roof, pretzels two blocks down, the downstairs neighbours laughing at a talkshow. The flares were gone as soon as they came, leaving only confusing darkness, but that one glimpse of normality had eased Matt’s mind slightly.

‘You’re okay,’ Foggy told him again, and he could almost believe that too now, so he nodded. He sniffled, trying to clear his head of mucus.

‘Wait here,’ Foggy said, rolling Matt back onto his pillow – as if he was likely to go anywhere – and went to fetch toilet paper.

Once Matt could breathe at least somewhat normally again, he drank the rest of his juice and told Foggy to borrow one of his t-shirts in lieu of that snot-covered one. He curled up in bed, feeling empty but no longer so hollow.

Foggy meandered about the flat before settling on the sofa, and even with only smoke for perception Matt could track his movements, breathing and heartbeat, uniquely tuned into them even as the rest of the world blurred.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Maybe he slept, maybe he simply drifted, but when he came to again, there was something missing. Foggy. He had gone. Foolish to think he wouldn’t, really. Matt wanted to check the time, but it took him an eternity of self-convincing to roll over so he could reach his alarm. His body was stiff and unresponsive.

‘Three oh four PM.’ How had he slept for half the day? No wonder Foggy had given up on him, but it still made the blackness clog his chest and try to creep up his throat. He bunched up the comforter and hugged it tight, because perhaps the external pressure would cancel out the internal and he could go back to sleep.

He needed to go to the bathroom, though. The sooner he got that out of the way the sooner he could be unconscious again. He convinced himself that it was worth the effort.

His head was still stuffy from all the crying, his belly growled with nothing but juice in it, and he was shivering in the cold flat. Maybe clothes would be a good idea. Maybe food would be too, but one thing at a time. He pulled on a tee, sweatpants, hoodie, even socks and then, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, followed those up with shoes. His mind wasn’t in on it, too busy wondering where Foggy had gone off to and if he would ever be back, so he just let his body do whatever.

Roof. He was on the roof. Snow was falling lightly, slowly thickening the crystal carpet. Cars were splashing through the salted slush below. The lady with the pretzels was packing up her cart early and the birds had huddled away and stopped chirping. Matt liked it up here, though. He belonged in the cold open where no one else went. He relished the solitude and the freezing wetness on his cheeks and hair, telling himself it was better this way – no Foggy to see him break, to fail to stop the crumbling – but the ache in his chest told him otherwise. He _wanted_ Foggy here, yet he couldn’t call him and ask him to return. He wondered if he had left a message somewhere to tell Matt where he’d gone, if he’d be back. He should go down and check his nightstand for Braille labels or something. Not happening.

The wind had picked up, driving snow into his neck as he stood on the edge of the roof. It would be so easy to fall. What would happen if he did? Was he high enough up?

His phone spoke at him downstairs, Foggy’s name again, and wait, what? What was he even thinking? Foggy would never forgive him if he did something so stupid, Foggy would be devastated, Foggy would be alone – and Foggy was _here_. The windy snow and the awful inner smoke had masked his presence, but he was down there, with pizza. He’d hung up when he realised Matt wasn’t near his phone.

 _Come and find me, I’m on the roof._ The sentence showed up in Matt’s head out of nowhere, fully formed like a nursery rhyme or a prayer. _Come and find me, I’m on the roof._ He remained on the ledge, wondering if Foggy would hear him. The thought seemed loud enough that he just might. _Come and find me, I’m on the roof_ , running on repeat and blocking out everything else.

Foggy was coming up the wooden stairs. Either he was telepathic or he simply knew Matt well enough to figure it out on his own – and oh, he should probably back up a little now. Foggy would freak if he saw him standing here. Before he could convince his icy body to move, though, Foggy and the wind had thrown open the door.

‘Matt? What are you doing?’ His voice was calm, but yeah, he was definitely rapidly freaking out.

Shit. _Move, Matt._ It was last night at the gym all over again – stuck standing, guard down.

‘It’s freezing up here,’ Foggy said, ‘let’s go inside, okay? I got us pizza. You knew that already, right? It’s pretty pungent. Come on, let’s go down and have a late lunch. I’m starving. I bet you’re starving. Matt?’

Foggy came a few feet closer – hesitant yet intense – and just like that, the spell was broken. Matt stepped back, turned to Foggy – and Foggy closed the distance between them in a flash, hugging Matt to him, heart racing.

Matt thought dimly that Foggy was a very good lawyer, because no one would have known just how scared he was from his words and voice alone. Terrified, Foggy had been terrified for him, and now he was crying, his breathing frantic and his arms compressing Matt’s ribs so much it hurt. Matt was shaking with cold and Foggy was shaking with fear or relief, and the duality of it was almost getting them off-balance.

‘I’m sorry,’ Matt stuttered, shoving a hand into Foggy’s snowy hair. ‘I’m s-sorry, I wasn’t, I w-wasn’t gonna do anything.’ He wasn’t, was he? He was fairly sure he wasn’t.

‘You damn well better not!’ Foggy choked out. ‘For fuck’s sake, Matt, you scared the living crap out of me!’ He let go and took a step back, holding onto Matt’s upper arms – the ten half-moons from earlier smarted – and still crying, still trembling.

‘I’m sorry,’ Matt repeated, and he was. He never wanted to do this to Foggy, _never_. Guilt flooded him, guilt and shame, and he withdrew from his grip. But Foggy wasn’t about to let go. He grabbed hold of Matt’s hand instead.

‘Come on, you’re turning into a popsicle up here. Why aren’t you wearing a jacket? Let’s get inside and thaw you, all right?’ Matt nodded and Foggy led him through the door, down the stairs, to the sofa.

Not until he was sitting there, wrapped in the blanket Foggy had draped over his head, did Matt fully realise how cold he was. Foggy had taken their shoes to the hall and Matt had his legs up on the couch, shivering head to foot. All those skipped meals, and not just today, either… he couldn’t seem to get warmed up.

The pizza was being incredibly obnoxious with its mingling smells of pepperoni and mushrooms and cheap cheese. Matt highly doubted he would be able to eat any, but he had to at least try to humour his body this time. Foggy was clattering about the kitchen, still shaking if his uncharacteristically uncoordinated movements were anything to go by. He came over with the box and glasses and paper napkins and cutlery, laying it all out on Matt’s new coffee table. It was red and matched the low cabinet by the window, or so Foggy and Karen had told him as they helped pick it out.

Foggy tried to hand him a slice of pizza but Matt’s hands were busy holding the blanket about himself, his teeth clattering too much to chew. Foggy ate it instead. Eventually Matt unwrapped himself enough to join in. The first few bites were difficult, but after that he was suddenly ravenous. He scarfed two slices in quick succession, followed by water. He knew Foggy was observing him, and even though it made him feel like a child he was also happy to be able to do something right for once.

Well, not happy. He couldn’t even recall the last time he’d felt happy, however much he knew that it must have happened. Still, the pizza had restored some life to his body.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘You’re welcome, buddy. Feeling any better?’

‘I don’t know. Yeah. I think so.’ Matt could hear Foggy’s smile in the way his breathing changed. ‘You?’

‘Me?’ Foggy sounded taken aback now. ‘Yeah, I’m good. Want another slice?’

‘Foggy…’ 

‘Look, Matty, I’m not sure what to say. You gave me one hell of a fright up there, and I can’t… I’m sorry, I don’t wanna pile any more on you.’ He shut up quite thoroughly and started clearing the table.

Matt wrapped himself up in the blanket again, sighing around the mass of smog and carbs inside him. ‘This isn’t all about me, you know,’ he muttered into his knees, so quietly that he wasn’t sure Foggy heard him.

He did. ‘Yeah, I know that, but I’m not the one who’s –’ He bit off the end of the sentence.

 _Just say it_ , Matt thought. _Say the word, it can’t get any worse anyway._

‘I’ll be fine,’ he said instead, the lie grinding up his throat like rebar against concrete. Foggy nodded without narrating and something twisted inside Matt, making him long for a time when things were simple between them. He straightened minimally. ‘This city needs me, Foggy. You need me too, I know that. It’s just sometimes it’s – it gets a bit much.’ Understatement of the year.

‘I know,’ Foggy said. He put the table-clearing on hold and sat back on the sofa, closer to Matt than the considerable size of the thing demanded. ‘I’m not too pleased you’d bring up the city before me, but I’m glad you know that. That I need you. Because I do. I think I’ve said it enough times, so…’

Matt leaned his head gently on Foggy’s shoulder by way of response. He thought of himself up there on the edge, of what had been rolling through his mind. Foggy should get to hear that. It took time, but he finally found enough words to say it.

‘I don’t put the city first,’ he whispered. Words, yes; vocal cords, no. Still, he could tell Foggy was riveted, because he stayed blissfully silent as Matt composed the next part and worked his voice up to speaking levels. ‘Up there, before I heard you, I – I was thinking – I don’t know, I was confused. But I knew one thing, I knew you’d, you’d never forgive me if I – and I’d never forgive myself for d – for doing that to you.’

Matt’s voice cracked on the last words, but it didn’t much matter if he fell apart now. He’d said what he’d needed to.

‘And I’d never forgive _my_ self if you did that, either.’ Foggy’s voice was breaking too, but he went on. ‘I’d forever be thinking what I could have done better, what I did wrong…’

‘You didn’t do _anything_ wrong.’ Matt was well aware that Foggy was far from infallible, with his short temper and his bluntness and his almost Panglossian belief in a better world they’d never see, but this much he knew. ‘I need you too, and all this…’ he gestured vaguely at his own dishevelled persona, ‘… it’s not on you. Maybe you can’t… _fix_ me, but… please don’t for one second think that you’re part of what needs fixing.’

Without warning, Foggy’s arms were around him again. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered into Matt’s neck, sounding so earnest – overjoyed and distraught all rolled into one. Matt untangled himself from his blanket cocoon so he could hug Foggy back, holding onto this perfect ball of dichotomy that he had the good fortune of calling his friend.

They were breathing in unison while their tears dried, and as Matt let the moment in with every sense available, he gradually felt like there might be a way out of the chasm this time around. It would take time, no doubt, but he thought he could make it if he had Foggy.

‘Okay, as cozy as this is, I’m getting a crick in my neck here…’ Foggy said, and his voice was back to normal. Matt released him and he sat up straight to roll his head back and forth. ‘If you don’t want this cold pizza, I’m gonna chuck it in the fridge.’

‘I’m good.’

‘Yeah, me too. The rest should be yours by all rules of equality, anyways.’ Foggy balanced everything on top of itself and took it back to the kitchen. ‘Oh, and guess what? I brought Monty Python. So I’ll go put the kettle on and then we can have a lark, innit, mate?’

Matt laughed, short and soft, surprising them both. ‘Your English accent sucks, _mate_.’

‘Like yours is any better.’

‘Shut it.’ Matt was smiling, the expression foreign on his face but a welcome change from the nothing of the past several weeks.

They popped the DVD into his computer and shared the blanket as they sipped their tea. Foggy had described this movie so many times that he hardly had to keep doing it. He did anyway, of course.

Matt fell asleep against Foggy’s shoulder as Lancelot and the rest of the entourage were answering questions at the bridge. When he woke up, the film was over and Foggy was snoring softly with his head on Matt’s and his hair in Matt’s mouth. He tried to extricate himself without waking him and failed completely.

Foggy stayed, not even asking this time. He talked and Matt tried to listen and nod and all that, but it soon got awfully tiring. Foggy noticed and borrowed Matt’s computer to read the news instead, while Matt listened absently to the city noises and to all the small, familiar sounds Foggy made without noticing as he read.

They had the rest of the pizza and a pair of bananas for dinner and then Foggy convinced Matt that it would be a good idea for him to have a sleepover on the couch. Matt thought ruefully that he probably only wanted to so that he could prevent any repeats of the roof escapades, but the thought didn’t exactly faze him.

~~~~~*~~~~~

Nothing was really that great these days. As winter turned ever-so-slowly into spring, Matt, Foggy and Karen found a workload they could all handle without cracking. Some days Matt had to leave early when the blackness overloaded his thought processes and threatened to make him cry right there, but he was beginning to trust that the others didn’t think less of him for it.

Nothing was really that great these days. Once the snow vanished, Matt took up his daredevilry again – but not every night. It was hard to keep away, but he knew he needed the rest. He and Foggy had sleepovers on the off nights, at either one of their places, and if Matt suspected that Foggy had come up with the idea mostly so he could keep tabs on him, well, he could still enjoy the company. Or cry into Foggy’s shoulder, if needed.

Nothing was really that great these days. Matt rarely had the will to do anything in the evenings – even his boxing at the old gym was falling by the wayside – but thanks to Foggy’s eternal support, he was learning to accept his lack of energy. As spring rolled on towards summer and the smell of fresh leaves and thawing dirt enveloped Manhattan, he actually started looking forward to the occasional night at Josie’s or weekend walk in Central Park. Foggy was always up for it.

So if nothing was really that great these days, at least things were getting better. At least Matt knew – really knew – that he could be fine again. And that was enough.

**Author's Note:**

>  **For tj_teejay:** Thank you for giving me this prompt! It was a rewarding story to write, and I really hope you got what you wished for. Merry Christmas!
> 
>  **For the rest of you:** Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed, too!


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